A/N: Bjorn = bear

Chapter 3 – Perspective Presages Apostasy

(II)

"-. .-"

Norscans didn't do taverns. They had alehouses, which was just a word for when someone left their gate and door open for people to come in and pay for a pint of whatever extra they had on hand. These folk had wisely rejected the idea of hops, as they turned ale from a stimulant into a most despicable soporific. But that also meant ale didn't keep as long without spoiling. Because of this, women always had a new batch brewing, and surplus to sell and supplement their income. This also meant a virtually endless variety of flavors, as each family recipe used different herbs and what else.

Norscans also didn't do inns. It was all ancient hospitality up here, the rite of salt and bread in a sacred covenant between host and guest. This was one of the few redeeming features of Norsca that even the Graelings religiously held to.

I didn't need the latter, but I was able to avail myself of the former to my heart's content. Ale had a very low alcohol content that even children could partake without worry for their health. Where water wasn't the cleanest, it was even recommended as substitute.

I was also able to buy a few things. It wasn't a market day, but stalls still hawked wares because port towns always had business. I was able to get a few items that would serve in spellcasting while I rebuilt the right spiritual mechanisms to overcome the need for material components. Fortunately, I was old hat at this. I'd had to do it in more than a few prior lives, the Materium-Immaterium byplay marches ever on. Normally I'd have to wait for my animus to grow and crystallize enough to support distinct organs, which would be around age sixteen, but Deft Animus Adaptation of the Dragon School should allow me to do it now. And much besides.

By sheer serendipity, I was able to haggle for a tiny set of stone carving tools too, made of good steel. Shipped over all the way from Marienburg, the vendor proudly boasted after he saw me dislocate the shoulder of an older lad who tried to steal my purse of silver. I hadn't had the leisure to make tools to make tools to make more tools to make yet more tools that could finally make tools as small and fiddly as these. These would serve me very well indeed. At least until I became skilled enough in magic again, and altering spells on the fly again to just transmute things into the tiny shapes and patterns I wanted.

All told, it was a very unpleasant surprise to see my path back to my boat suddenly blocked at both ends of the street.

I'd have understood if it was some ruffian or snatcher, but four people at each end of the alley was too many for a single boy. Well-equipped too, boiled leather, axe or sword to a man, a club each too, and a couple of them were even equipped with breastplates over gambeson. Steel, not iron.

The Captain had tattled. Of course he had, I displayed monstrous strength and made my eyes flash like flame to stop him asking too many questions. But that was well within the means of any random apprentice sorcerer or shaman, not… whatever this was.

"I said don't crowd him."

The two breastplate-wearing men at both ends of the street stepped aside. From the direction I'd just come through appeared… not the one that spoke but someone else. A grizzled man covered in charms of stone and bone and wearing a wolfskin skull and cloak.

What's a vitki doing here?

Finally, there appeared a big, broad, muscular warrior with a thick yellow beard, dressed in the highest-quality summer clothes I'd ever seen this side of the Clawed Sea. He had manticore skin boots on his feet, and an enormous snowbear cloak about his shoulders. He wore a hood too, but I spied the glint of gems on brass within the shadows on his brow. A circlet crown.

The Bjornling's own king?

What was he doing so far from Skjold? Was it in case he had to contest the Graelings at sea? Or did he worry we might still try to raid them on the way back home? Perhaps higher up the coast?

I hadn't seen hint of him during my astral scouting, and I'd looked up and down the roads too. He could only have arrived here by ship in the past day or two.

"He the one?" He asked one of the men, one of the dockworkers from before.

"Aye."

"Seer?"

"Bjorn sees… I don't have the words to explain it," the vitki said, discomfited. "But the boy burns like a bonfire alright."

Extremis had its disadvantages too, unfortunately.

Behind the vitki's eyes, the face of a great, lumbering spirit bear stared at me. It didn't look or feel like a daemon.

… When exactly did my life turn into one long chain of unexpected complications again?

… But if it wasn't a daemon in disguise, that meant the Four didn't have direct ears and eyes here right now.

That rather expanded my options, didn't it?

The big man stepped forward, paused to give away his axe and knife to one of the bondsmen, then he slowly approached with his palms out as if I were a skittish cat. "We have the ship impounded." What. "There's always clever plots going on at the docks, we have a second, separate supply dock an hour's ride south precisely to send those ships suspected of stuff like this." What. "They're not going anywhere until I say so." What. "I need just say the word and they'll be rounded up." If he harms a hair on their head I'll- "If they used any threats or ill means to make you work for them, they can't follow through on them anymore. You're safe now."

I blinked.

All tension left me all at once like snow off my back.

I rubbed my eyes and just had to laugh a few good seconds, at this complete reversal of how my fellow man had treated me this whole life.

I dropped my hand and looked up at the Chief of Jarls who'd stopped well outside arm's reach. His, not just mine. "What's your name, good man?"

The others made no mystery of their disbelief, but I ignored them.

The big man himself took it in stride. "The name's Bran Lostkin," he said without the boastful manner common of men claiming to be related to Erik the Lost. "I happen to rule these parts."

"Well met." For once, it was the truth. "I would that you just let them go. My mother has suffered enough, my teacher has nothing left to teach, and slavery is among the most contemptible things man can ever inflict on himself."

With just that sentence, all conversation ceased.

For all the good points the Bjornlings had compared to the rest of the tribes, they were still Norscans. They still kept thralls.

I waited. I counted the seconds in my head. There were quite a few of them.

But to my complete amazement, Bran finally looked at one of the two men in breastplate and said: "The inspection didn't find anything out of order and they're free to go on their way. The captain has a standing invitation to attend any feast in the Longhall for the next season."

The man nodded and left to fulfil his commands.

"Thank you," I said, because it was no small thing to take a mere stranger at their word, never mind do him a favor. Especially when you were king. Doubly so from a child. "What now?" I asked when the standoff began to turn awkward. "Am I to be detained instead?"

"I mean to make sure there's no funny business happening in my lands, and to offer you my hospitality while you're here."

"Why?"

"Bad omen not to give roof and table to visiting shamans, especially ones with flaming eyes." The big man smiled crookedly. "Even babies like you."

"I don't hold with the Crow." Tzeetchian sorcerers were the ones closest associated with warpfire eyes. "Or the other three."

The look in his eyes changed. "'Round here we call him the Raven."

"Ravens are wise, noble animals with intelligence almost akin to man, and anyone who ever claimed the Most High-Strung owns that bird is a liar." The most charitable word for the reactions of everyone hearing me speak such foul heresy was 'aghast.' "Crows, though, are all liars."

The king exchanged a baffled look with his seer, before turning back to me. "I'm only more worried about you now, boy. What will it take to make you trust me?"

I hesitated. He was… really earnest, I kind of wanted to agree just to make sure he was safe now. But… "You are not obliged at all. I'm apprentice to no one and hold to no clan. I bind no tutelary and speak on no other's behalf, my words are only and wholly my own."

"Mighty clever words they are too," the man muttered. "Who taught you, then?" Bran pressed. "How do you know what you know, do what you do?"

"That being what? I've hardly done anything noteworthy."

"Steal men's words with a glance, crush a grown man's hand in your lightest grip, bandy with kings as if we're peers." He glanced towards the shore, then back. "Sail a ship into port through a fell storm sent by the Sea God himself."

"Well." He had me there. "Technically all of that is true. Technically. If you squint."

"If you don't worry for yourself, then for my sake. Nightfall's not far off. I would rest easier knowing a child like you isn't out on his own."

"… You really do mean that, don't you?" I couldn't help but marvel. Now that I thought about it, I hadn't seen many street urchins. The realization didn't come with any sinister feelings either. "You really are just worried some ill-to-do ruffian or hag will snatch me up and have their wicked way with me."

"Ugh," the man pulled on his beard. "Do me a favor and don't use those words that way again. At least until you're grown. Please."

I shook my head, still smiling wonderingly. "Miracles walk among the Norsii even now, it seems."

The king grunted to distract from the flush in his cheeks. His sun-kissed beard did him no favors there, unlike his hood. "That mean yes, boy?"

I smiled wryly. "Because you've been honest with me, I'll do the same – I don't think you want to do this."

"Why's that?"

"I began this life as a Graeling." Dead silence. "I'm not some spy or sapper, I wasn't with the fleet, I came here in secret just to deliver those two to their ship. My only aim now is to leave without causing further disturbance."

I waited for the… perhaps not inevitable failure of diplomacy? The Bjornlings and Graelings hated each other, and it was an old, deep, personal thing. Not just the enmity of resource competitors and mutual raiders.

"… No way you're one of those savages," said one of the metal-clad bondsmen, finally breaking the spell that had fallen on us.

Bran watched me quietly, then turned his head only slightly while never taking his eyes off me. "Ofnir?"

"The boy appears completely ordinary, even to the spirits," the vitki said distractedly, face turned not to any of us but to the south-west. "But his boat bears traces of a blessing worked by no mortal weaving. Whatever else happened out there, that vessel was conveyed here by the will of the sea itself."

Now I had to groan. "Oh for goodness' sake."

"The Storm King's, you mean?" Bran said dryly.

"Actually no." Triton wasn't the king of the sea, just its most mighty son.

"Well, whoever or whatever it was, they're not someone I want to offend."

"Yes, yes, you've figured me out, congratulations," I huffed. "I'm not just a baby magician, I'm a talented baby magician. Bring out the skalds."

"A talented baby magician with blessings unfathomable even to the spirits themselves."

I deflated. "You people have distressingly low standards."

"Look kid, do you accept my hospitality or not?"

I scowled, but when I returned my look at the man I couldn't help but soften again. He was just trying to do the right thing. Wasn't that why I came all this way? "… I suppose I can endure a night." Though…

Would staying longer be so bad? Converting this tribe to the side of sanity remained the path forward with the greatest potential returns. Not counting usurping my little brother's Empire outright, which I didn't want to do. I'd intended to vanish as incognito as I arrived, and come back to make overtures after I'd situated myself, but…

It didn't have to be on my terms, did it? If theirs were good enough.

"Finally," Bran harrumphed, motioning for the rest to get things moving. "I swear, I've dealt with dark elves that weren't as difficult as you."

Since the shaman wasn't going to, I fell in step next to the king. "Did they speak our tongue, or use a translator?"

"The latter, why?"

"Elvish languages have a lot of nuance. Depending how you pronounce a word, it can mean a dozen different things, more the longer the sentence. They were almost certainly insulting you the whole time."

"Nothing I didn't expect then." Bran's scowl belied his true feelings though. "You weren't lying when you said you're not a vitki?"

"No."

"Then how does a little boy like you know all these things?"

"Ask me again when I'm royalty," I replied with total seriousness. "At least."

"Should I be worried for my seat?"

"No."

"Well, that's good." The man's huge hand was gentle when he laid his arm across my shoulders. "Now let me tell you what all of this not to tell the local Jarl. He's a rather more cantankerous sort, and he's been blessed with so many children that he doesn't have patience for anyone younger than sixteen summers anymore."

I spent the night with the Bjornling king. And his two foremost bondsmen who turned out to both be his sons. And his seer, who spoke with the voice of a spirit without knowing how far beyond a mere spirit it really was. And all the jarls and chieftains and warriors mustered too, in case the Graelings tried their luck at the eleventh hour. All under the hospitality of Jarl Aran Foambeard, in his great hall at the summit of Heimsetter Hold.

The man liked his mead almost as much as he liked to boast. About himself, and his son, and his son, and his other son, and his twin sons that were off being wastrels instead of attending the feast with the rest of their family, and those daft girls that were going to drive him spare before he was even fifty years old, couldn't some ever so brave and strapping warriors take all five of them off his hands already?

There were all sorts of trophies on the walls. Skulls, crows, feathers, helmets, weapons, teeth and bones of great beasts. But instead of the dragon teeth and manticore heads, the Jarl boasted about the stag antlers, and the little charms hanging from its prongs where it loomed from the top of his throne. A wolf charm done in chalk by a child's hand, a bear made of amber, a small axe chiseled out of dark rock, a small warhammer made out of gold, a disc of the same to symbolize the sun. Mighty proof of his children's deft hands from as young as just seven years old, wasn't it just?

The Nature King's Antlers, the Sun Disk, Blitzbeil, Ghal Maraz.

Next to me, where I did my part to distract people with my 'heroic grip' and 'winsome wit,' King Bran laughed with the Jarl every time such a topic came up, all the while carefully studying the reactions of the crowd.

I went to sleep that night with a fervent, bittersweet feeling, just one among hundreds of bodies sprawled haphazardly on their cloaks all over the longhall's floor

I didn't plan to do more than that, but the eyes of spirits were one me. I emerged from my body and wandered the sated, sleepy hall. For once, the daemons masquerading as tutelary spirits were a weak presence, overshone by the true tutelaries of the other shamans who'd come with the muster, many of them bears, and the Great Bear himself, their patriarch.

Ofnir, the king's own vitki, was smoking wattle bark on the hall's threshold, tuned as deeply unto the spirit world as anyone could be without falling completely unconscious.

The spirit that walked with him did not share with the man the slightest figment of my arrival. The Brown One, Bjorn, Arth. His deep chestnut coat would surely seem genuine to others' eyes.

Not mine. "Ursun."

Even before I named him in truth, he was sizing me up to rip and tear. "If you tell anyone, I'll eat you."

"Peace. I understand." The Chaos Gods and their daemons surely knew that the other tutelary spirits of the Bjornlings served the Bear God instead of them. But as long as the shamans themselves still held the Four as ultimate inevitabilities, as long as the Bjornlings at large played their part in their plots – genuinely, because they didn't know – it should be more trouble than it was worth to wrangle the other tribes to genocide this last holdout of the Old Faith.

The Unlamented Prophecies said the Cult of Ursun was gutted and scattered during the Great War against Chaos, did this state of affairs endure until then, or will it end sooner?

That conflict was over a thousand years in the future, and would only unfold if I managed to conclude this life in even deeper irrelevance than the ones before…

But the Black Death was only some sixty years away, if nothing changed.

"I cannot see past your veneer, boy, if that's truly what you are." The Bear God growled with his fangs bared. "I've half a mind to take no chances."

"I've a need to fly far afield for a span. Can I entrust my body to your care?"

The bear god's snarl slackened from surprise. "… You got me there, boy, a better show of good faith I couldn't ask." He studied me less angrily now, though still suspicious. "Is it a bluff, I wonder? What if I call it? What if I don't?"

I waited for him to make up his mind.

"My offspring will keep watch," the bear god finally decided. "You'll be running with me, if you can keep up."

"My apologies but I'll be using flight."

I flew up and away at the speed of imagination. Since my perspective was literally cosmic, and the scope of the notions I fathomed could modestly be described as 'universal,' that was a very swift speed indeed.

By the time Ursun's fastest sprint managed to catch up with me, I'd already finished updating myself on the developments back home, and was waiting for him at the edge of the Bjornlings' territory.

"That – was – ridiculous," the Bear God panted with his tongue lolling out. Pretense, or inherited weakness from his mortal years? Was he a mortal at any point? A human? A bear? "Bloody vunderkinds, never miss a chance to kick dirt in our eyes."

There were many things I could say, but I didn't. I was too worried about what I'd found. And for once, it was from the complete opposite direction of the worst-case scenarios I'd had in mind. "I'm sorry, Bear Father, but I'll likely be even poorer company on the return."

"Are you even tired?" The bear god grunted in disbelief.

"No," I shook my head. "Only troubled."

Ursun watched me, then looked to the distance in the wake of my many-looped flight, before turning his eyes upon me again. "… Come, then. You can ride on my back."

"-. .-"

I woke up well ahead of the dawn, in the shadow cast on the wall by the large form of King Bran, who'd laid down on his cloak between everyone else and me. I was confounded. I was anxious. I wished I didn't have to leave these people so soon.

Delving the World of Forms had only made my mood worse. I'd spent a bit of time there after returning to my body, and it was most unpleasant compared to prior times. Perhaps as a taunt from fate, or from luck, the most valuable Form I touched was also the first revelation I ever refused outright. The most thorough and effective way to raise, indoctrinate, and brainwash a child to happily become your meatsuit in case of your death would surely be of interest to evil gods and dark wizards. They could all go to hell. And they will.

A more palatable Form was Periapt Craft Manifesting Sympathy of the Shaper. Once I properly assimilated it, this one would supplement my basic magic item creation skills with insight into the making of talismans. Ordinarily I'd consider one-use charms to be a waste of resources, but these could be made from literally anything, and in practically no time at all. There was even a way to dictate and enhance their function based purely on their shape, which was already giving me ideas when considered alongside the form of Arcane Illusion. Being able to direct the sympathetic principle via mere superficial appearance will surely bring many and varied benefits.

It wasn't enough to wash the bad taste left by the other Form, so much so that I gave up further delving for now. The World of Forms was not static, but I myself imposed a certain constancy upon it – or at least my small place in it – as part of being able to delve it to begin with, never mind tap it for useful concepts. I did seem to possess the ability to reshuffle this relative to myself, but I had to sacrifice anima to do so. The very substance my soul was made of and which I needed to Name and assimilate Forms to begin with, not the mere animus of my spirit.

This was something of an emergency, but I ultimately decided that it would be better to have more to work with when I self-actualized naturally, than to rashly make sacrifices that were still unnecessary.

I would settle for the third and last Form as consolation until then, which was actually the first one I Named. Talisman of the Uncommon Raven Mirage.

Technically, it was merely instructions for creating a talisman which, when activated, caused anybody nearby of weak will or low intelligence to believe that they were being harried and pecked at by a huge flock of ravens. Except those 'instructions' included a thorough crash course in the Grey Wind of Magic, practically teaching me Ulgu spellcasting all the way to magister tier.

I sat up and watched the sleeping form of King Bran. He was on his side with his back to me, a statement of consideration and protection in one. I studied his aura for any signs of injury or sickness. Spells too. Nothing stood out, so I turned my eyes to the rest of the hall. Up to now, I'd avoided drawing on any of the Winds unless strictly necessary, but this time I made an exception. Like a matrix woven throughout my eyes, I scanned every direction for illusions and any other tricks possible through the Grey.

No one was feigning sleep. No one carried invisible knives or poison vials, or other things concealed. Most critical and relieving of all, there were no invisible lurkers anywhere near, and no skaven.

Relieved, I wrapped myself in Ulgu so that I made no sound and registered to no eyes as I left.

I didn't run into anyone else awake until I reached the front door.

"The King has fulfilled all his responsibilities as your host, and more." Ofnir spoke as I stopped at the open doorway. He was sat on the threshold with his back to me, but his second sight was traveling backwards, through walls and men and the dying hearth light between, to pull Bran Lostkin out of his dream. "Will you insult him by leaving without discharging yours? Never mind like a thief in the night."

"I was going to leave a note." Which was the truth. "But I can see you won't settle for that. Ruin his rest then, perhaps I can come up with something worthwhile yet."

I walked outside and hoisted myself up on the railing – the path to the longhall bordered a ravine on one side – and busied myself with one of a handful lantern pendants I always had with me, which only needed the last, tiny scripture etched into them. Ofnir watched me the whole time, eyes intent on the way my spirit imbued the small item with every scratch and clip.

"Can't sleep on the floor?" The King's sleepy voice preceded the rest of the man, slurred mid-way through by a yawn. "Didn't have you pegged for a princess, but what do I know – holy shit, kid! Get down from there right now, it's dangerous!"

"I am grateful for your hospitality, but certain matters have appeared that require my hasty departure. I hope that…" I trailed off at noticing the thing hanging off a chain from the man's belt.

"Yeah no," Bran 'interrupted' me, because in his half-conscious state he didn't notice I'd already stopped. "You promised one night and it's barely been half. You're staying here until you've eaten breakfast and shared at least one story. Then if you truly must be off, I'll have one of my boys escort you wherever, at least until our borders." It was a testament to my millennia of experience that I understood all that, because the last sentence was more yawn than words. "Why the hurry anyway?"

"Problems back home, something – someone I'm responsible for."

"Responsi- Gods, kid, you're what, ten?"

"Thirteen."

The big man boggled in disbelief. "But – you're tiny!"

"I'll have you know my growth spurt began four days ago."

The man grunted, rubbing his face. "Because of course you can just tell."

"That thing at your waist, is it a book or a journal?"

Bran seemed to realize, for a whole second time, that I was sitting on a railing above a ravine. He visibly wrestled with the impulse to come over and pull me back on solid ground. Somehow, he refrained and instead lifted the item I'd asked about from its clasp. The chain was new too. "Haven't decided yet, got it from Foamebeard's son, can't remember which one, as a welcome gift when we got here. Why?"

Because it was a lot of paper, bound very tight and well in leather and bone. "It looks like it came a long way."

"All the way up from Tilea, lad boasted about it a lot, he's like a salesman even when he's not selling anything. Don't get any ideas, though. I don't know how things are with your lot, but around here you gotta wait at least a full turn of the seasons before making gift from another gift."

"What about adding to a gift?"

"How do you mean?"

I hesitated. The warning of the Bear God was still fresh in my ears, and I hadn't practiced any of the Winds enough for transmutations, never mind something as complicated as I was now considering. But…

I hopped down from the railing – the man's shoulders visibly lost tension – walked over to him, and held out a hand. "May I? Just for a few moments."

Some healthy suspicion finally entered Bran's eyes, but he held out the blank tome nevertheless.

I took it, drew a slow breath…

Psyker powers and Dhar are one and the same in the end.

I twisted my animus from my soul outward until it spiraled forth as the Golden Ratio in its most perfect form. It had taken me decades during my life as a Federation psionicist – and not even the first one – to be able to manifest truly perfect sacred geometry, even though I'd been able to visualize it for millennia prior. Neither was as easy as it sounds, but completely worth it for more reasons that just leaving anathemic fire behind you, while running from warp gods in death.

Side effects don't matter if you only leave room for the good ones.

Wild magic formed around me in a shell, through which no emanation could pass to and from either realm. And no sound. As a result, the reality-warping side effects of drawing directly on Warp matter was all concentrated inside as well. On me.

And the object I held.

I brought it close to my lips, breathed my very own anima into it, and Eununciated my most favorite Form into physical shape.

"Be Thou the Primer of the Golden Skies for the Dead."

I felt the loss. A chunk of my anima every bit as large as the Form itself.

The blank tome morphed its covers into a lantern bas-relief, floated open above my hands, and rapidly turned its own pages as it filled with words. Written in runes. The real ones, not the perversions propitiated in this land by men unlike this one.

Very quickly, the book was full and no longer self-animated.

I let all magic fade. For better or worse, Bran had drawn back when I began to cast, and only Bjorn had stopped Ofnir from reacting rashly.

I held out the book, now full, back towards its owner.

Bran was scowling at me now, but he slowly met me half-way and took the book back as if he expected it to burn his hand.

"Instruction manual. For making more of these." I dropped the new lantern medallion on top of the book's cover.

"And what is this?"

"The sage will be able to tell you, and if not, the Brown One surely can." I smiled sadly. I really wished I could stay longer. "Please convey my apologies to Jarl Aran. I know I haven't done my full part as his guest either, but I hope he can consider my small sloop a worthy gift."

"Boy, wait-!"

I jumped on top of the great longhall in a single bound, then leapt clear of the cliff itself to plummet to the town far below.

"What the – holy shit NO! Ofnir, catch him, do something-!"

He didn't catch me, though he made me work for the counter-spell.

By the time I reached the ground, I had calculated that neither weightless flight, nor my fastest landbound sprint would make good enough time. On their own, that is.

Combined, then.

I sent up a stream of large, bright, shooting sparks. I tuned my hearing through the wind's currents and listened until I heard the sounds of a nigh-hysteric sigh of relief reach me from up above.

Then I free-ran across walls and rooftops until I cleared the town's walls, and proceeded straight North at the fastest jump chain my body could achieve without outright exploding from Extremis overburn, clearing entire thickets in a single bound.

Leaving by boat would be too easy to intercept, and I'd run into the raid if I did make it out of nearby waters successfully. Neither was acceptable when I needed haste.

To my complete and utter disbelief, Hrami hadn't turned on me the moment he was free. Instead, he'd picked up where we'd left off. He had since led his coterie to the Monolith of Katam as if nothing had changed, along with our many carts of lanterns and gunpowder.

He was a clever one too, my unwanted convert. Mixed together, charcoal, sulfur and saltpeter had healing properties. Leaning on that, he'd managed to persuade everyone that burying the bags of black powder all over the grounds was for a similar purpose, healing those walking the grounds or some such, nay, the very land of Norsca itself. In fact, he'd managed to do this before any other shamans and their coteries even arrived. He'd then sent everyone back home before they had company, so they wouldn't blab and give away the plan. He hadn't killed them, even though he was well used to doing so to preserve secrecy.

Unfortunately, his mercy was already being worked against him. While he was planting the last of the gunpowder charges around the base of the monolith – actively ignoring the entreaties of the Skull of Katam himself that lay inside – the last couple of groups he'd sent home had been waylaid by sorcerers from other clans. Their patrons had whispered no end of plots and secrets in their ears since well before then, including that Hrami of the Mammoth Rider Clan had strayed from the true ways.

They were less than a day from the Monolith now, waiting for the arrival of a few more mages of like mind before heading to confront the heretic as a group.

I probably wouldn't get there in time to do anything.

But as sweet or bitter as the truth was to face, I had no reason besides sentiment to stay down here either, even though it was what I really, really wanted.

The Bjornlings were the best of the Norse, but they were also the only ones who didn't need anyone to save them.

"-. New Forms .-"

Talisman of the Uncommon Raven Mirage (100 cp, Amulet of the Raven, Warhammer Fantasy: Kislev, Illusion) – An ancient talisman with a powerful enchantment that, when activated, causes anybody nearby of weak will or low intelligence to believe that they are being harried and pecked at by a huge flock of ravens.

(Refused)(400 cp, Spare, Demon: The Fallen, Control)– This child was raised from to be a repository of a God by some local cult. They have found themselves in your care. They are quiet, polite, and show you nothing but complete and utter adulation and an undying loyalty. They would want nothing more than to be your host should your current one perish. It is perhaps this reason that Jump-chan allows you to take their body when you die. You can only have one Spare per jump. At the start of each jump, they start at the equivalent age of 16 and is of a non-magical race that will default to human. If your Spare is imported as a companion, you lose the ability to take over their body should you die and a new Spare will appear in your next world. If you wish, Spares that exist in other worlds can have faint memories of their previous lives in other worlds. This cycle of reincarnation and remembrance is broken if a Spare is used and a new one continues.

Periapt Craft Manifesting Sympathy of the Shaper (300CP, Talisman Adept , Inukami, Domain: Crafting: Magical Items) – You are very skilled at using talismans. What that means is you can make them have different properties (like light or sound) and with enough time and training you can make truly devastating effects. You are much better at using talismans and can give them properties of what shape they are in. Shaped like a frog? These talismans can bounce towards their intended target.

Points Left

800 – 100 (Bran's Book) = 700 CP

The next chapter is available on P treon (karmicacumen), Ko-fi (karmicacumen) and Subscribestar (karmic-acumen), along with advance chapters for The Unified Theorem (Warcraft), and Everything, Everywhere, one Thing at a Time (Harry Potter Multicross).